


Snowed In

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, F/M, Smut, Stranded, Tension, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22451722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Set early into Season 2. Dean’s struggling with the aftermath of his father’s death. You’re struggling to get through to him. A sudden blizzard really brings things to a head.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Snowed In

The snow comes down enthusiastic and wild, fat flakes clinging to your hair and eyelashes. The wind is harsh and biting and you’re chilled straight to the marrow of your bones.

“Fuck, hurry up!” you grit, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets because of course you wouldn’t have thought to pack gloves during a Midwestern winter.

“Would you just can it?” Dean snaps back, voice a grating grumble. “My fingers are fuckin’ numb.”

You huff out a breath, watch it curl and fog into the frigid air. The sky’s a deep, nasty gray, makes the towering pines appear dark and ominous with the fading daylight. Steel clicks as Dean works the lockpicks together, accompanied by a few whispered curses - _C’mon, Goddamnit!_

The hunt had gone fairly smoothly. Shifter - goddamned vile things. It had only taken a few hours to track the thing down (at its own cabin, no less - the universe really seemed to be on your side on this one), then only minutes until Dean had it laid out lifeless and crumpled on the frosty earth, heart pierced with an expertly fired shot of silver.

With winter’s unforgiving conditions, disposing of the body would have to wait - so the rotting creature is currently tucked away in the Impala’s trunk - much to Dean’s disliking, of course, but there’s _no_ way you’re sleeping in the same building with the monster - dead or not.

“Aha!” Dean finally says, victorious, and you whoosh out a heavy sigh of relief when he works the knob and pushes the door wide.

“Thank fuck,” you breathe, following him inside. It’s warm, heat still on, and you take a moment to shiver, to let the fresh warmth seep into you.

The place isn’t particularly neat, but it isn’t a mess either. It’s dusty, like the shifter hadn’t spent a lot of time here (or maybe it did and was just a shit housekeeper), and there’s a bit of clutter, loose clothing strewn here and there - but it’ll more than do.

“Dibs on the bathroom,” you say, shouldering your duffle. “I’m gross.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean nods. “I’m starving. Hope this asshat’s got somethin’ edible.”

*

It’s probably the tiniest bathroom you’ve ever seen, just enough space for the toilet, sink, and shower, but as long as the water’s working (and somewhat warm), you’ve no right to bitch.

The water indeed works, comes on with a whining _squeal_ as you turn the knob. You dip your fingers underneath the steady spray - and thank _god_ \- it’s hot.

You groan out loud as the water pelts and rinses away the dried sweat and grime. Your thoughts shift and bounce like they always do. You think about the bittersweet success of the hunt; the monster’s dead, but so are a dozen innocents. _That’s the job, _Dean always says, and you’ve always wondered just how young he was when he’d heard that same sentence grumbled out by his father, and how many _times_ he’d heard it.

And then you think about John - or rather - what his death, his _deal_ has done to Dean. You didn’t know the man personally, only met him once or twice. Dean never did talk about him much, not in the four years you’ve known him - but he’s different now. Grieving. This has him fucked up, plain and simple. The loss cut him sharp and deep; left an open, _gaping_ wound - and Dean’s treating the exposed nerves with bandaids and whiskey. A true hunter if you’ve ever seen one.

Sam’s worried, has been for a while. He’s tried talking and gets nothing back. You don’t bother to try. Sam’s his family, his blood - you’re… Hell. You don’t even know what your relationship is with him. Definitely not girlfriend, and friends with benefits sounds so… detached. You’re somewhere in between, maybe - something kinda-sorta-not-really-serious… but lacking a label.

The very worst of it, though - the thing that cuts _you_ deep - is that cold, nagging fear that you care more for him than he does for you.

The water’s gone lukewarm by the time you realize you’re crying, so you cut the stream with a protesting screech of the steel knob, and yank the towel off the rack.

*

Dean’s hunched over the stove as you pad your way into the kitchen, leather jacket hung over the back of a wooden chair tucked underneath the small dining table.

“What’s cookin’?” you ask, voice mousy.

“Soup,” Dean answers, gruff and short. “Minestrone.”

“Perfect weather for it,” you say, grimacing at your sour attempt of small talk.

Dean grunts, then stretches an arm up to open a cabinet door. He picks out two bowls, clunks them against the counter as you go to pull a chair back - then pause.

“Can I help?”

“It’s soup,” Dean says, sharp. “I think I can handle it.”

You press your lips into a pale line. “Sorry.”

Dean sighs long, straightens and stills, grip hard around the pot handle. You wait, breathless, sure he’s about to speak, but he simply fills the bowls with a wet slop.

You thank him as he sets your meal in front of you, noting the way he hands you a spoon without meeting your eyes.

Warm from your shower, the first swallow seems to thaw you from the inside. “S’good,” you compliment, licking the remnants from your lips.

“It’s Campbell’s,” Dean mumbles, scoops up a heaping spoonful. “Kinda hard to fuck up.”

You nod. Nice.

The two of you eat in stiff silence, only the clinking of silverware and the eerie howling of the wind cutting into the quiet.

“Blizzard,” Dean finally says. “Awesome.”

You wipe at your mouth with your sleeve and tongue your teeth. “Think we’ll be stuck here for a while?”

Dean’s gaze finally slips to yours, eyes deep; almost feral. “It’s a goddamned Wisconsin blizzard. The hell do you think?”

His tone is as cold as the dropping temperature outside, bites and freezes you to the core. You mull over a response, carefully calculate your words. “I think…” You shove your bowl away with a deep scrape. “I think you need to talk to someone.”

“I’m sorry, _what?_” Those deep jades are on you again, brows low and angry. “I don’t need a goddamned shrink, got it?”

“I don’t mean a therapist, Dean.” You scrub your hands over your face, drag them through the wet mess of your hair. “I’m here. Just - talk to me.”

Dean works his jaw, gives you a weighted roll of his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“You’re not okay, dude,” you say, voice thick but even. “You’re burying and faking and - and it isn’t fucking working.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Goddamnit, Dean!” Dishes clatter as your palm smacks against the table, startles even you. The sting of it smarts and prickles. You close your eyes and let it. “I care about you. More than you’ll probably ever know. I’ve let down my guard for you. I don’t do that, not for just anyone.” Dean’s gaze swings to the window. “And maybe,” you press, “maybe that doesn’t mean shit to you, but it does to me. Look at me, Dean!”

He’s slow to do it, but he does; tilts his head, bores twin pools of deep green right into yours. “You’re hurting, dude. I know your thing is to shut down, to close yourself off and numb it with booze and violence - but you’ve got someone right fucking here. Someone who isn’t Sam, someone on the outside-”

“Yeah?” Dean seethes. “And you’re just - what? You’re gonna make it all better?” He shakes his head, full lips drawn back and sneering. “You think you can just fix me because you’re a chick, huh? Because you’ve got tits and cunt.” That makes you stiffen. “Just say it. You think you can just fuckin’ _mother_ me until I’m whole again?”

You clench your teeth, stare at the ceramic round of your bowl hard enough you think you might burn a hole right through it - but you stay quiet.

“Answer me!”

The deep boom of his voice makes you flinch, but you keep your gaze steady, stay silent.

There’s a blur of motion then, followed by a piercing shatter as a bowl obliterates against wood paneling.

“Answer me,” Dean says again; voice soft, but icy.

Slowly, you sweep your eyes to his, drawing up every ounce of strength to keep the emotion dammed. “Fuck you,” you hiss, the words a razor-sharp whisper. “Fuck you!” Your voice rises to a gritty strangle, and you don’t miss the way Dean’s eyes widen a tic, the way his lips part. “My sex has _nothing_ to do with this.” You stand, jab a pointed finger at his chest. “You are _killing _yourself! You’re not hunting for the good of it anymore, Dean! You’re hunting for the danger, for the fucking risk-”

“Then why’d you tag along?” Dean fires, pushes back from his chair to rise. “Hmm? If I’m so fucking dangerous - why risk _yourself?!”_

You recoil, direct all your hate, all your frustration at the ticking timebomb looming in front of you. “Because I’m worried about you! Because you and Sam are so fired up right now you can’t even _look_ at each other! Because I fucking _care_ about you!” You take a breath, drag four fingers over your mouth. “You selfish son of a bitch,” you mutter, shaking your head as you lift your eyes to the ceiling. “You goddamned self-centered-”

“You need to leave,” Dean says then, voice quiet; controlled. “Go.”

“Excuse me? Dean - there’s a goddamned blizzard outside and we came in _your_ fucking car!”

“Layer up,” he says, grin tight and cold. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have any trouble hitchin’ a ride.”

And this is the moment where you lose control, it’s the moment you’ll regret for years, a lifetime even - but you bear forward and crack your palm against his cheek. Dean stumbles back with the shock of it, nearly loses balance as the back of his calf hits the seat of his chair.

You’re still simmering hot, so you aren’t expecting it when Dean recovers, when he gets an iron grip on your biceps, fingertips aching into the muscle. You start to shake, vibrating from some combination of fury and anguish and fear, but you hold strong, keep your gaze solid.

You’re expecting a hit; a punch, slap - a shove even, but you aren’t expecting him to kiss you. You yelp into his mouth, pained, because it’s _violent_; bruising and rough and demanding. Your hands find the steely bulges of his own biceps, your fingers clawing at his sleeves. The seething rage still boils and steams your blood, and part of you wants to smack him again, wants to knee him right in the goddamned nuts - but another part needs him closer; needs to feel the heat, the weight, the frenzied thump of his heartbeat. Goddamnit. You need _him_.

So you hold him, hold him flush against you - not that you need to with the way he’s bowed and dipped and pressing - but you anchor him still, let him take control, let him lick into your mouth and nip your lips until they’re fat and puffy.

His hands have moved up to frame the bolts of your jaw, fingers pressing into the back of your neck, underneath the damp curtain of your hair. You get a better grip on his sleeves, tug him sharply forward because you need him closer still, and he takes the challenge, bares you both forward, feet clumsy as they thump across wood, and then he gets you pressed against the wall, the harsh edge of the doorframe cutting into your shoulder blade. You grunt into his mouth, and if you were looking - you might have seen him sneer.

You barely manage a breath before he’s got both hands on the backs of your thighs, hefting you up until your knees frame his hips. You get your arms around his shoulders, holding tight and locking your ankles against his back. Dean breaks the kiss, just pants against your mouth, hot and damp. His eyes are open just a crack, deep and dark and wanting. You just stare, the two of you, unblinking and lost in the balmy heat of it all. You watch his jaw work, the way it pulses and bulges underneath dusky stubble.

“Dean.” It’s just a whisper, but it’s heavy; weighed down with all the things you want to say, with all the words and thoughts you’ve kept locked inside for too long. He blinks, then dives down to kiss you again, just as wet and hungry as before.

One hand still clasped around the meat of your thigh, the other moves to the front of your plaid pajama bottoms, yanks the drawstring loose so he can delve down underneath. Your clit sings as he rubs you through your panties, the pleasure so sudden your lips go still and slack, breath coming out in hot bursts as he keeps dragging those heavy fingers against you with this _perfect_ pressure that you just know is gonna make you shatter if he keeps it up - so you get a hand down on his wrist, fingers barely touching around the girth of it-

“S-slow down,” you hiss, only now aware of the way your hips have started jerking and humping against his hand.

He does slow, at your words, slows into a gradual stop until his palm lays idle, cradling your cunt. Your eyes have closed, but they peel open, drink in the shadowed flush of his cheeks and lips. “Please…” It comes out in some faint combination of question and command, and Dean shifts forward until his hips nestle against the hand still wedged between you.

“Want me t’fuck you?” he rasps, and it makes you hot all over, makes your clit twitch, your cunt clench-

“Please.”

A gasp wrenches its way from your throat then, when he draws his hand back to grip the hem of your pants to work them down. You help him, heart drumming something wild as you untangle yourself from him one leg at a time. He doesn’t bother with your panties, just fists the worn elastic and _rips-_

You don’t have time to feel the sudden chill because he’s already cupping the damp heat between your thighs; palm rubbing - _grinding_ \- rough and _delicious_ over your clit. You know you’re going to come like this if he keeps it up, know you’re just going to drench that palm in seconds-

But then his hand is gone, leaves you wet and hot and aching. There’s a rustle, a metallic snap and drag, and when you can finally tear your eyes down south, you see that he’s opened up his jeans, one hand trapped down behind the wide V of denim as he pulls himself free.

His dick’s full and flushed; almost purple at the tip, long fingers curled tight around the thick root - and your mouth waters with a sudden urgency to taste him, to feel the stretch of your lips as you suck him in deep-

He shuffles in closer, and electric sparks flare from your clit as he glides the blunt tip through the hot slick of your folds. You tense and shudder when he finally, _finally_ pushes into you, thighs flexing as the insides of your knees squeeze at his hips. He shivers as he presses in, you can feel the subtle little quake underneath your palms, and then he sighs heavy and damp-hot into your ear.

“God,” you breathe, eyes rolling with that exquisite fullness, the pleasure of it rippling down to your toes. He drags back then, gets both hands under your thighs - and starts a _ravenous_ rhythm; fucks in with these sharp, punching strokes that makes the heat bloom higher and hotter.

You’re so wet now that it’s audible - even underneath your mingled grunts and pants and moans, the sound of it packing onto the want and the fervent hunger. Your hands draw down the strong curve of his shoulders, get settled on his biceps (rock-hard now with the strain), and it dawns on you how fucking strong this guy is; how much power lies furled underneath skin and heat and muscle.

He’s _really_ picking up the pace now. His form is sloppy, but urgent and demanding as he fucks his stress and fury into you - and the way your hips are surging and bucking right back against him tells you just how much you need it too.

Dean tilts his head back, eyes dark and vicious - and you can see that sweat has broken across his forehead and over the perfect Cupid’s bow of his upper lip in shiny little beads. You’re damp and flushed all over too, can feel your shirt clinging to the skin under your tits and the dip of your spine.

He shifts, gets a better grip of your thighs and it makes his dick hit somewhere deep and _good_. Your nails dig tiny trenches in the hard bulge of his arms, and your vision’s fucked; everything’s a hazy, mottled dark as he drives and curls.

“Fuck-” you finally manage, his only warning (like he needs one), and then you’re shaking and clenching, veins flooding icy-hot as the pleasure swells and crests. Deans doesn’t stop - actually fucks harder and faster, plunging in so deep that his pelvic bone snaps against your over-sensitive clit and it’s too much, but it’s good, draws out your own climax and keeps you just - _there_.

Dean’s face goes rigid, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. He snarls as he comes, lips twitching right along with the cock stuffed deep inside the drenched heat of you - and you can feel every wet pulse as he spurts hot and sticky into your cunt. You can barely hear the thunk of his hands against wood as he falls to brace himself, can barely hear it because your heartbeat is loud and deep in your ears. You stay like that for a moment; shivering and panting, and then he finally gets a hand between you, careful to ease himself out before helping you down to your feet.

“Goddamn…” you murmur, drag a trembling hand through your hair as you settle.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, breathless and dazed. He stoops down to scoop up your pants, a little awkward as he hands them to you, eyes vacant. You manage a _thanks_, lower lip caught between your teeth as you work them back on.

“You, um…” Oh hell. “You okay?”

Dean grins crooked as he tucks himself away, finally swings his eyes to yours as he buttons up. “Always.”

“Dean -”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out slow and practiced.

“For what?”

“I’m… I dunno. I’m not…” He looks around like he might find the right words etched into the walls. “I don’t - ain’t handlin’ this so well.”

You nod. “Your dad?”

He smiles dry and sardonic, smacks his lips. “Yeah. That and… I dunno. Everything.”

You give him a wide-eyed stare, tilt your head in prompt.

“Sam, he…”

“Dean. C’mon, you can tell me-”

“I can’t.” He softens a tic, moves in to smooth his hands from your elbows to your shoulders. “I just… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, eyes closing as you feel the hot weight of his palms. “I get it. It’s - it’s okay.”

Dean nods, blinks out a silent thank you, and presses a warm kiss to your forehead. “Been a day, huh?”

You laugh out a breathy _yeah_, and try to match his faux smile.

“Let’s crash,” he offers. “Might be stuck here a while.”

You’re not entirely sure he’s talking about the blizzard.

You smile tight.

“Lead the way.”


End file.
